Men of the Road
by HowAboutThisForAName
Summary: A young Imperial spends the night in a Khajiiti camp, and finds a brief companionship while doing so.


**Caution: This story has males involved with other males. This is your only warning.**

Men of the Road.

Their fires begot smoke, and that smoke rose. It gently furled and twisted, casually fluttered upon the morning breeze, clawed elegantly and and made a beacon, a statement that those that had created it were there at all.

The camp was Khajiiti, with leather tents like upturned bowls and set against a stark bluff. Scouts stood on the low branches of trees spread about the plain, while others watched over their brethren with composite bows and spears. They were situated aside the road, a well-used road that travelled from Whiterun to Rorikstead, Rorikstead to Lainalten, and Lainalten to either Dragon's Bridge or Markarth.

Travellers passed, few dared to journey into it's depths for a general fear of the Khajiit and their means. They saw nothing but smugglers, skooma addicts and thieves. The proud people watched on in equal rage and disappointment, upset that this was their lot in life due to the workings of a few bad eggs.

But then, after a particularly large convoy of traders and rich folk passed, not sparing a second glance at the camp, one Khajiit couldn't help but glance at the bend which lead around the bluff and to the flank of their camp. He was a tall fellow, clad in a long robe of bright crimson and burnished orange, with pointed boots and a chain of bells at his belt, he held a long spear that stood no less than nine foot, and a sabre held in an open-work sheath lay about his hind.

Ja'Moir observed a curiosity, or more, a unique person. In the throngs of beefy, blond Nords and associated warrior paraphernalia, he'd not expected to see one of the least loved races aside his own wandering the roads of this cold, hard land; an Imperial.

Wearing a ring mail and baldric, iron gauntlets and a single lion-headed pauldron about one shoulder, and hiding his thighs was the beginning of a dark gambeson. The pants he could see were white and relatively well kept, and were tucked into hard leather boots made for travelling. He wore no hood nor helm, and relished the wind in his dark, curled locks. His azure orbs lit up upon spotting the camp, and Ja'Moir saw the flash of teeth that signalled a smile.

Most noticeably was that he lead his horse, rather than riding upon it, seeming to enjoy the feel of cobbles by the spring in his step, and Ja'Moir evaluated him as either a naïve or a carefree man for the fact any weapons he did have were on the creature's flank where they could not easily be reached.

The Imperial approached, and locked eyes with Ja'Moir, who gave him a suspicious glare. The friendliness was not well founded after a day of spite, he'd forgotten what it looked like when real, and when someone was having a joke. Regardless, the man stopped before him, and greeted with great sprite, "Hello, my good man! Are you selling?"

Ja'Moir cleared his throat, and stood a tad taller, realising he was representing his people in this instance, "Of course," was the simple answer, and the man seemed very satisfied with it.

"Excellent," he said, "I am Otho, may I ask your own name good sir?"

Ja'Moir was sceptical, but conceded and replied in kind. The Imperial scrutinised the name for but a second, seeming to be in thought, before trying it on, "Ja'Moir... Ja... Bachelor!" he recognised, showing knowledge that surprised the man in question, "Ja means bachelor, doesn't it?" he queried, and the cat-man gave a sharp nod.

"This one wouldn't of expected you to know," he admitted, before looking him over more closely, "where are you from friend?"

Otho's smile seemed to fall just a tad, and Ja'Moir cursed his curiosity, "Apologies, I did not reali-"

"No," Otho interrupted, "No it's fine, I'm not really from anywhere, is all. I was born on the road."

Seeing a chance to rectify his actions, the Khajiit jumped on the opportunity, "Then this one shares something in common," he smiled a welcoming smile, "I will take you to Ahkari, the caravan master."

The Imperial smiled in turn, and followed the Khajiit down the bank of the road and into the camp. Eyes quickly drew to them, a potential customer always a welcome sight, and Otho couldn't help but take them in as well. Ohmes tattooing their faces, Cathay going about all sorts of business, a few Cathay-raht huddled around a camp fire, even a couple Pahmer and single, huge Senche-raht, which gazed from within a tent as it's side was treated for some kind of wound. Khajiit of all types, and the man grew curious, "Might I ask, what breed are you, Ja'Moir?"

The Khajiit hummed at the question, striking the ground with the end of his spear as he strode by his brethren. Tall, lean, with a face like a rugged lion, his legs were more like those of a cat than those of a man, and he looked like he could pounce with immense power if he so chose, "Tojay-Raht."

"Oh, I've not seen one of your kind before, mostly Ohmes and Cathay," the Imperial admitted, watching the man's back -which was halfway bare thanks to his robe- with either admiration or satisfaction.

Ja'Moir did not answer, but simply lead the man and his horse into the central circle, where a particularly large bonfire bloomed and where Khajiit of all kinds congregated. The day had been long, and was winding down, the late afternoon cloudy with but a few wisps of orange sun bathing the place in a dull glow, long shadows cast about as though attempting to get away from their masters.

Khajiit prepared for an evening of dance and laughter, some tuning traditional sitars while others began pulling out cauldrons to cook their broth. Observing this all with a keen eye, from the largest and most decadent tent, a seated Khajiiti woman, clothed in a long shawl of beads and stones, a dress worked from tough fabrics that refused to tear. Akhari.

She was flanked by two individuals, a tall Cathay-raht in plate armour more Nordic than it was Khajiit and of whom held a childish smile, while the other was a young Suthay not dissimilar to her master.

Due to her keen eyes, she'd observed the Imperial and her employee with some mirth, her years of knowledge and ill-gotten skill making her spying a very self-ingratiating thing, "Look here Kharjo," she ordered thoughtfully, letting a clawed finger address the duo and horse, "look at this stranger."

"I am, Mistress," he affirmed, accent and pathology more Imperial than Khajiit, watching with caution and regarding the fellow with apathy, "an Imperial, some traveller or adventurer."

"No, no, this one needs to look closer. Look at his legs, at his face, the way his hands and mouth moves," Akhari lectured, using her own hands to illustrate her point. Kharjo squinted, and crossed his arms as he leant forward somewhat, "do you see?"

"I do not know what I am supposed to be seeing," he admitted, and the tradeswoman sighed.

"Then this Khajiit will attempt to clarify," she reassured, and then let a hand grace towards the guard, "look at Ja'Moir."

"He smiles, he looks bemused," Kharjo noted, and this scored a clap from Akhari.

"Exactly," she said triumphantly, "compare these two."

Kharjo did so.

"Do you mean?" Kharjo made a motion with his hands, and the tradeswoman nodded.

"See, one just needs to connect the dots. Such things become obvious in time," she congratulated, and watched as they approached.

"Mistress, This one has a customer," Ja'Moir introduced, "this is Otho," he then turned to the young Imperial, "Otho, this is Akhari."

He gave a deep bow, something that the Khajiiti woman did not expect, and grinned at him as a result, "Do you think formalities matter here, friend?" she queried, and he got a bit flustered.

"Sorry, I didn't know if it would offend you or not," he admitted, and the tradeswoman looked at her younger counterpart for a moment in satire.

"Calm yourself, child," she soothed, "Sit, drink, observe our wares."

The Imperial looked to Ja'Moir, as though he were supposed to give some kind of solace, but the Khajiit just gave a sympathetic shrug, "This one will head back to his post," he declared sombrely.

"No, stay," Akhari snapped sharply, catching the young man's attention and giving him reason to stay put. Ja'Moir looked to Kharjo questioningly, but the older man gave a serious nod in return, a look that told him to obey, "Now, Otho, what is it that you are looking for?"

The Imperial looked at his horse for a moment, "Can I tie this down here?" he asked, looking at one of the tent poles that held up it's frontal tarp.

"By all means," Akhari allowed, and watched as he did so before pulling free a bulging sack.

"Trade is on the mind, I've precious gems and ingots, engraved daggers and old coins," he said thoughtfully, beginning to untie the bag.  
"And what would this one request in return?" Akhari questioned, now that trade was on the table it was more serious, she'd put on her bartering face.

"Books, potions, food," the Imperial listed off, glancing about the innards of her tent, "typical odds and ends."

The tradeswoman smiled, and took the time to stand straight, "Then let us haggle."

It was dark by the time Otho had finished his shopping, having severely emptied his load of treasures in return for salted meats, healing draughts and a collection of old Khajiiti tomes. The trip had taken him around the camp, and now he stood at the back of Akhari's tent, looking at some odd trinkets while Kharjo watched on, the caravan master in question busy dividing up coin between her other traders.

It was the younger woman though, that approached the Imperial, clearing her throat to catch his attention.

His ring mail jingled as he turned, holding a box of supplies under one arm and taking her in in an instance, "Hello again, Zaynabi," he greeted politely, that easy smile coming over his features again as the woman gave a soft, Khajiiti sort of smile in return.

"The Mistress wanted you to have this," she explained, extending her arm and taking Otho's free hand, "as thanks for trading with us, she said it should serve you well given time," as she spoke, she placed a small round and wrapped thing into his palm. He looked it over carefully, before giving a short nod and thanking the woman.

"I believe I'll be staying the night, may I join you?" Otho asked, looking out at the bonfire and the noise that accosted it, Khajiit dancing and having fun.

Smiling, Zaynabi looked over her shoulder at Kharjo, who grinned in return, "We're always glad to have visitors, if only more would appear."

Otho smiled at that, but the exchange was interrupted when Akhari and Ja'Moir approached, "If you are staying," she extended her arm towards the guard, whom had been accompanying her the entire day as per her request, "This one has elected for Ja'Moir to chaperone and house you for the night, friends of the Khajiit are treated as family."

"Oh, thank you," Otho acknowledged, "but that's really not necessary, I would hate to intrude."

"Nonsense!" Akhari remarked, "You are a guest, we will treat you as such."

There was no arguing with the woman, and so Otho just looked over her shoulder at Ja'Moir, who shrugged for the second time that day, "This one doesn't mind."

"Well… If you insist," Otho finally agreed, turning towards the exit, "I'll just put this on my horse, you might as well come along Ja'Moir, if you want."

As the duo left, Kharjo snorted, "He took that in stride."

"This one imagines he would," Akhari smiled, "I hope something comes of it."

As Zaynabi also left the tent, leaving the two older Khajiit, the warrior shook his head, "They're either very thick or you're more inconspicuous than you look."

"You see what this one sees, Kharjo, you must imagine it from the perspective of those youth. Remember that your full name is S'Kharjo."

"Bestowed on me by you," the man in question added snarkily.

"Regardless, you are experienced, an adult. You understand things others don't understand, it is why you are this one's personal guard," she said deliberately, watching the fleeting backs of the two young men, Otho's horse having been tied up with other such creatures, "but they are not so embellished."

"That's the word you choose to use?" Kharjo asked sceptically, "more like torture."

"Psh, don't put a damper on the evening," Akhari hissed, and placed both arms behind her back, "this old woman is having too much fun."

Khajiit music was fast, with shouting and chants, high pitched sitars and elongated ney, bendir and bongos accompanied by dancers of all sorts. Broth and vegetable soup were served throughout the crowds, bread was torn to bits among ruinous children and the place was alive with colour and joy. Akhari still sat at the forefront of her tent, looking at the great fire and the people around it, but her eyes kept glancing to one log in particular, were among the throngs of Khajiit Otho partook in alcohol and skooma, apparently less than pure in terms of criminal activity.

Ja'Moir was there as well, by his side, laughing as he slapped his newfound friend on the back, the two laughing at absurd things as the party gave cause for, and she smiled at it.

Kharjo was off on his own, wandering the more deserted parts of the camp and playing warden to small children and the less savoury of their pack, making sure sabre cats kept their distance and that no one attempted to steal from the caravan while the majority of Khajiit were gathered about the campfire.

He had patience infinite, a distinctive trait that made him invaluable to Akhari, a very cosmopolitan upbringing that made him savvy with Imperials and Nords, and a skill with the mace, short-blade and shield that was beyond the vast majority of the camp's inhabitants.

But he was a philosophical individual never-the-less, and had dwelled on many things that day as the stranger came in. He was a confident young man, full of sprite and happiness, a distinct intelligence and expertise that came from his travelling ways. The rugged landscape was his home, the night sky his ceiling.

Maybe Kharjo wanted that.

However he would not leave on a whim, he had no reason to. This life was secure, if largely dull, he had friends and prospects. But he promised himself he'd keep his options open, the inspiration of Otho enough to get that adventurous spark in him firing up. He just needed incentive.

His thoughts on this subject were interrupted by his query's benefactor, though, in a strange turn of irony. Kharjo stopped and watched as the largely drunk and high Otho hung half-way off what was supposed to be his chaperone; Ja'Moir.

The two stumbled into a tent together, and Kharjo rolled his eyes when he saw the eyes of either young man. Well, Akhari had certainly been correct.

Ja'Moir had asserted himself easily, Otho was not the type to fight too hard. It was the way the Khajiit's hands graced his shoulders, held him down as a tender tongue lapped at his neck and chest. There was dominance, cat-like and suiting of his face, the way he growled when Otho tore his own nails into the young man's back, an understanding an perhaps a pre-emptive payback for the pain Otho would surely endure.

Maybe it would have made more sense for the one with barbs accosting their member to lay down as the submissive one, but the Imperial had stated it was fine, and had proven it with the way he used his mouth.

He licked it, let his tongue graze by the sharp ends, only winced by did not cry when he accidentally caught his tongue on one, and proved to Ja'Moir that he knew what he was doing and was accepting of it. This was only further ingrained when he crawled atop his friend, and lowered himself.

Of course it hurt, and a few tears did escape him, but as he slowly adjusted the Khajiit gave him all the time in the world, kissing away every tear and soothing the Imperial with little humming lullabies his mother had taught him.

But then Otho took a deep breath, and slowly but surely drew upwards. He felt tearing, and Ja'Moir felt a sticky substance on his member. But he persisted, and over time worked up a rhythm, riding the Khajiit purposefully. His hips moved passionately, adjusting well–as he seemed to do with everything-. He rolled and bounced, did tantalising things, placed his arms high and put on a show for his newfound lover.

Of course he could only stand it for oh so long.

Otho felt the warm substance fill him, it stung somewhat as it pervaded open wounds, but the pleasure was more than enough to put the slight discomfort to bed, and he found himself emptying as well, streaks of his seed erupting across the chest of Ja'Moir.

It was then that he collapsed atop the Khajiit, falling against his chest even while the man's member flicked out of his opening, sending a mixture of blood and seed across the tent. Ja'Moir wrapped his arms around his lover, and felt as his Imperial friend fell asleep in them.

He joined him only a few minutes later.

Otho hissed a little as he sat up, allowing a free hand to grace his hindquarters, he brought it back to see largely dried blood and other substances coating his fingers, "Ow," he grumbled simply, and looked around the tent. Ja'Moir was sitting there, a small wooden plate before him laden with cheese and bread.

"Good morning, friend," the Khajiit greeted, nodding his head and clasping his hand. He'd already dressed.

"Hey," Otho replied informally, wincing as he shifted his weight, "that was good last night."

"Though not this morning," Ja'Moir observed, watching as his friend fished about for his slacks.

"Erm… If I recall correctly," the Imperial said haphazardly, his mind still waking up and largely frazzled as last night's events came roaring back to him, "Akhari gave me something for this, though I didn't know what it was at the time."

Ja'Moir watched as Otho fished about on the floor, bent over and presenting a visage that made Ja'Moir both excited and guilty. The Imperial eventually sat back down tenderly, throwing his pants into his lap, before producing a small object from one of his pockets.

On it's varnished surface was gold lettering, and Otho read it out loud as he watched it, "Dro'Azar's Rectal Healing Balm."

"Ah," Ja'Moir recognised, "that's quite popular among us Khajiit, for obvious reasons."

"Can you get me a cloth? This might take a little bit of time," Otho asked, and his friend leaned over, patting him on the shoulder.

"Take all the time you need," he stated softly, and stood. Moving across the tent, he grabbed a cloth and tossed it to the Imperial, before moving towards the exit of his little home.

"Where are you going?" Otho asked, beginning to dab his opening.

"To your horse, you'll need some fresh clothes, yes?"

Otho smiled, "Sure… and thanks, Ja'Moir, it was nice."

"That is the best thing this one could hope for," the Khajiit in question grinned, before pulling the flap open and shut.

Otho did end up with a slight limp for the rest of the day, though, something that his friend had been riddled with guilt over. The man got dressed quickly and quietly, placed the balm and his used clothes in his horse's saddlebags before joining a large majority of the camp's populace for a communal brunch, the men already taking down the majority of tents and packing them away on the backs of horses and carriages.

Because of this, it went largely unnoticed, with only a particular mistress and her bodyguard catching sight of the young Imperial's botched gait as he walked by the bonfire's remains. "I saw them last night, tumbling into a tent," Kharjo explained thoughtfully, "I think we both know who dominated."

"This one is surprised that her balm was needed at all," Akhari noted wryly, watching as Otho stumbled a tad, only to be righted by his close-stepping friend.

"Most will probably assume he is recovering from the effects of skooma, which is good," Kharjo added, and the two gave each other a look as Otho sat down tenderly, the logs to stay in place even as the little tent city was taken down around them.

"Indeed," Akhari said, "what does this one think will happen now?"

"How so?" Kharjo queried, crossing his arms, "If you mean will Ja'Moir attempt to follow him, then I imagine he will try. But as you said, he is young, and the Imperial does not look the type to stick around."

"At least they shared the night," Akhari consoled, nearly to herself more than Kharjo.

"You're a short sighted bat sometimes, Akhari, I hope you know that," he lectured, and the old woman chuckled.

"True, true," she acknowledged, "but he deserved this, he's a hard working boy. It's not very often someone with such inclinations comes along, I thought it'd be good."

"It was good for the short time it lasted," Kharjo sighed, "but this sort of thing never lasts."

"This one seems awfully pessimistic," the caravan master countered.  
"I'm realistic."

"I'm sure someone will come along and prove that wrong, one of these days."

"And until then?"  
"This one's point is taken."

It was later that day that Otho rode off, a few Khajiit farewelling what they'd seen as a fun fellow and little else. Ja'Moir also farewelled him, but under a different pretence. Kharjo stood aside the young Tojay-Raht, hand on his shoulder as both consolation and a deep seated warning.

He could not run off with the Imperial, that much was true. He was needed here with his brethren, but that night would stick with him, Otho not the sort of thing he felt he could forget so easily.

But he understood that the Imperial was a man of the road, an adventurer, a free spirit, and conceded that it was not his place to accompany the fellow.

After the man was a sufficient distance down the road, Ja'Moir turned away, and got back to work.

**I wouldn't take this too seriously. This was written over two nights after I got an idea. If you want to give some kind of review be my guest, but anything that goes overboard in regards to criticism will be treated the same as troll posts. I.e. I'll delete it.**

**Thanks for reading, and if anyone can guess what Skyrim universe this takes place in, they'll get a virtual cookie… Or maybe a story written for them, that sounds like better incentive. Not that I mind two ways about it.**

**~Isaac.**


End file.
